Gen’s sweater was crewneck and fitted. She had a little scarf tied around her neck. And the heel height on her booties wasn’t stratospheric.
Still not Prescott.
But at this point, he couldn’t imagine either woman in anything less.
Chloe tugged her mother to a stop in front of him.
“Hello, Duncan,” Genny greeted.
“Genny.”
She looked nervous again and unsure what to do.
So he caught her by the side of the neck, pulled her in and up, and kissed her cheek.
The woman was blushing when he let her go.
“Maman, vraiment?” Chloe murmured teasingly.
“Shut up,” Genny mumbled.
Duncan made note look up the word “vraiment.”
“Tour!” Chloe exclaimed. “Then I’m vanishing so you old people can do boring things like chat over coffee. Come, Mummy. Come, Bowie.”
And off Chloe went, again dragging her mother with her.
But Genny looked over her shoulder and mouthed, “Bowie?”
She knew.
He was steadfastly “Duncan” to outsiders.
He was “Bowie” to those he let in.
He shrugged.
She disappeared inside his house.
He followed but stopped a few steps in, even though Chloe was pulling Gen to the great room at the back of the house.
He then looked around.
He’d designed this place, came once a week to watch it go up and lived there for five years, but it was like he was seeing it for the first time.
The square entry was very large, open, and this feeling was increased by the upstairs gallery that ran the entire space. There were seating areas up there, one recessed in an alcove. The walls were covered in shelves that held books, things Duncan had picked up while traveling, framed pictures of the boys or their terrible, but cute and hilarious, artwork from when they were little and trophies his sons had earned.
The back of the house was a great room that had two-story, floor-to-roof windows and a view of the lake curving around the back of the property, the forest, and the mountains.
Off to the right of that, the open plan kitchen with a walk-in pantry, access to the four-car garage and wide doorway to the dining room. And to the left, hidden beyond the wall where the large stone fireplace was, was utility and laundry as well as a powder room.
The rest of the house, upper and lower floors, had two halls leading off each side of the entry (down) and gallery (up).
Downstairs there was his office. A den. The dining room. A room that held pretty much nothing but an antique pool and poker table, because Duncan and his buds liked to play poker and pool. A couple of guest baths, because there was a lot of space, and when you needed one, you didn’t want to have to walk miles. And a game/media/TV room, because he didn’t want his boys hogging the television with their game play, nor was he a fan of seeing them on their asses for hours, so since they dug that on occasion, he gave them space where he didn’t have to look at it.
Upstairs were all bedrooms, each with their own en suite bathroom, and the master had a balcony and a pretty damn spectacular view of the lake, forest and mountains.
It was furnished in comfortable, sturdy furniture and decorated in family, west, old west and southwest with some mission and Native American thrown in.
It was masculine.
Already felt lived in.
And it was entirely overkill.
He felt a pang in his side at holding back the need to bend double laughing.
Sure, in his current, smug self-actualized state, he could admit this was a realization of a dream.
But it was also a massive, six-thousand-square-foot fuck you to his dead dad.
And last, it was a house Imogen Swan would feel comfortable in.
Because no matter the sturdiness of the furniture, it was top of the line, looked great and cost a whack.
And the west, old west, southwest and Native American stuff was mostly art, carvings, statues, weavings, antiques, and it had all cost a small fortune.
She wasn’t even a dream, the idea of Genny coming back into his life. Until his assistant got a call from her assistant a few days ago, not even a possibility.
But he’d built this for her.
For Genny.
For the woman she was today and the man he’d always wanted to be for her.
And he could not deny that.
“You look amused,” Genny noted, coming back into the entry.
“I am.”
“Is it because my daughter, who does not live here, has commandeered guide duties and is giving me a tour of your home?” she asked.
“No,” he answered.
She tipped her head to the side in curiosity.
Chloe ignored this exchange and pulled her to the stairs.
“I won’t bore you with the rest of down here. It’s all man stuff, outside the dining room, which you’ve seen. And the den, which has no purpose, since the entirety of the house is set up for men to do indoor manly things, and the den is no different. Therefore, that would be the room a woman could requisition and cover in floral wallpaper and chintz furniture. We’ll save that for last. Now, we’ll go to my bedroom. Which, if you don’t poke yourself on the sharp things, is divine.”